Three Words
by Naninator
Summary: What was running through Sherlock's mind during that phone call? A three-shot that is spoiler heavy for the episode: The Final Problem, so read at your own risk! Sherlolly!
1. I Love You

_Hello everyone! This little story will be in three parts. The first chapter is dialogue heavy from the_ _episode: The Final Problem_ _. I wanted to get a little insight to what Sherlock was feeling during that phone call with Molly. This story will be spoiler heavy so please read at your own risk._

 _The next two chapters will be up soon. Enjoy the Sherlolly feels - I'm a hopeless romantic!_

 _Hope you enjoy and all mistakes are mine!_

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the show. I'm just using them for my own entertainment.**

 _Chapter 1: I Love You_

 _I love you_. Three syllables. Three simple word; profoundly unique when used separately yet, when used together, could change a person's whole concept of love forever. Sherlock Holmes was no different, despite previous allusions to the contrary.

 _Say it like you mean it_ , she had said. Did she know what it would do to him if he said those words to her? Did she know what he would realise, what he would _feel_ , when he uttered those words to her? Knowing Molly Hooper as he did, Sherlock was fairly certain that she knew. As he had struggled the first time saying the words a sense of calm had settled over him, a stillness blanketing his mind as the words flowed through him, and he found himself repeating those three words, softer this time.

 _I love you._

After the words left his lips the second time, Sherlock understood what she meant when she said they were true. He had never wanted to acknowledge it before, the change in his attitude towards her, his behaviour towards her since his return well over a year ago. She had always counted to him, he had always trusted her. She mattered. He had just never realised how much until that moment.

To come to the realisation that he meant those words concerning her, that they were true, at this crucial moment where her life hung in the balance, had him wanting to tear his hair out at the irony. What was supposed to be a profoundly beautiful moment between two people admitting their feelings for one another was sullied by the sound of Moriarty's obnoxious imitation of a ticking clock as the countdown in the corner of the television screen flickered away the seconds Sherlock had in securing Molly's response. It was sullied by the game his manipulative sister Eurus was playing with all of them, wanting to understand how they worked in an emotional context, how _he_ worked.

The calmness that he had felt at uttering the words faded as the seconds ticked by and Molly still hadn't answered. Panic, terror, rushed through him in its place and Sherlock found himself struggling for breath.

"Molly?"

She stayed silent and Sherlock's eyes burned with tears. He had said the words, just like she asked him! He had said the words like he meant them, no, not _like_ , he _did_ mean them, and it was more than just hoping to save her life, it was to save himself as well. His throat constricted around the lump that had suddenly risen and lodged itself there.

"Molly, _please!_ " He gasped and his voice shook, pleaded, with her to answer. He waited, heart racing, lungs straining, as he watched her lift her phone to her lips. A beat passed and everything fell silent, as if the world too was holding its breath for her answer. And then, her voice, barely above a whisper:

 _"I love you."_

Profound relief, as well as a shard of joy ripped through him at her words and it almost felled him. He sucked in a shaken breath as he dropped his head back, his eyes closing tightly as tears threatened to fall. She had said it, she was safe. Everything would be alright now. But his mind, his brilliant mind that had never forgotten a thing when is concerned Molly Hooper, called up the sound of her voice as she uttered those words, how broken she had sounded, and then the sound of his own voice as he had said them, the sense of wonder colouring his tone as he realised his own truth, and his chest constricted. He had hurt her in making her say it, by making her play Eurus's game, and he didn't know if she would listen long enough for him to explain, listen long enough to forgive him.

His breath hitched and he hunched forward, pressing his hands hard into his eyes, the butt of the gun he held digging into the flesh of his cheek as he struggled to get himself under control. How did people _do_ this every day? How did people feel like this every day and not be destroyed by it? How did John stand it, now that Mary was gone? He scrubbed hard at his eyes before he straightened and dropped his hands to his sides, feeling drained and emotionally exhausted, his blue-green eyes bloodshot from holding back tears. He heard footsteps behind him, the rustle of an expensive suit reaching his ears.

"Sherlock," Mycroft started softly, clearly not want to startle his rattled brother. "However hard that was for you – " Sherlock cut him off, not wanting his brother's rare sympathy in this moment when he was finding it so hard keep it together. All that mattered was that Molly was safe because he had done what his sister had told him to. He needed to push through this, see it to the end. He couldn't allow his emotions to get the better of him, not now when they were too close to the surface and everything was riding on him to solve his sister's puzzle. He jerked his head up, looking at the camera sitting in the corner of the room.

"Eurus, I won, I won," he declared, keeping his voice even. It was silent for a moment and Sherlock swallowed heavily to stem the sudden fear that he had missed something. Not wanting to show how anxious he was to his sister and the two men in the room with him Sherlock sighed impatiently, rolling his eyes to appear nonchalant.

" _Come on_ , play fair," Sherlock griped, frustrated that Eurus was stalling when she had got what she wanted. "The girl on the plane, I need to talk to her. I won, I saved Molly Hooper." His eyes darted to the television screen when his sister's face appeared, her expression curious.

" _Saved her_? Saved her from what?" She sounded confused and Sherlock felt that panic rising again and clenched his hands into fists. Eurus's lips quirked and she gave him a look as if she were speaking to a dimwitted child. "Oh, do be sensible. There were never any explosives in her little house. Why would I be so clumsy? You didn't win, you _lost_." Sherlock blinked rapidly, his jaw clenching. He swallowed thickly, a lump forming in his throat as he looked away. Lost? He'd saved her, saved Molly Hooper. It didn't matter that there were never any explosives as long as his sister's attention had moved away from his pathologist. She would be fine, he would talk to her after all this had ended, explain things –

"Look at what you did to her," Eurus continued, her voice soft, curious, marvelling over how utterly _lost_ Sherlock looked. "Look at what you did to _yourself_. All those complicated little emotions, I lost count. Emotion context, Sherlock, it destroys you, every time," she said matter-of-factly, her wide blue eyes watching him intently as he turned away from her. His gaze was drawn to the coffin and he walked beside it, pausing to place the gun on the stand holding it up. His eyes were burning and his head pounded with his sister's words. He could feel John's and Mycroft's eyes on him as he walked towards the lid of the coffin, propped against the wall in front of him. His hands shook and the shaking travelled up his arms, causing his shoulders to tremble. His eyes filled as he looked at the inscription on the coffin lid, his jaw clenching as his sister's word repeated over and over in his mind - _you lost, you lost, you lost._

"Now, please, pull yourself together," Eurus told him, her voice emotionless. "I need you at peak efficiency. The next one isn't going to be so easy." A wall shifted, revealing a door.

"In your own time." The television filled with white noise and, after a pause, John and Mycroft started towards the door. _Easy_ , she had said. How had any of that been _easy_? Sherlock was sure that his relationship with Molly Hooper would be forever changed after that phone call. He'd heard it in her voice – she had been fed up, tired by the way Sherlock and others had treated her, had taken her for granted. Would she even want to see him after this? He blinked rapidly to control the stinging in his eyes, his vision blurring slightly as he read those three simple but devastating words.

Sherlock picked up the coffin lid and moved back to the coffin, gently laying the lid down to seal it. As he did so he wondered over why he was doing it. Was he trying to hide what had just happened, what he had just revealed to his best friend and older brother by closing the lid on the coffin? Was he just going to bury the feelings that had been brought crashing to the surface, those feelings for Molly that he had been suppressing, _ignoring_ , for years, just so he wouldn't have to deal with them?

His eyes again caught on the golden plate at the top of the lid, reading the words inscribed there. _I love you_. His hands brushed against the wood and he shuddered. Eurus had made this for her, for Molly. Had intended this to be Molly Hooper's coffin and the thought caused bile to rise in Sherlock's throat. His eyes filled and he released a shuddering breath, the reality that he almost lost her, had been made to believe he would lose her, overwhelmed him and he could barely breathe. He looked up, his eyes catching John's across the coffin, his expression raw, wounded, _lost_.

"Sherlock?" John called softly and the compassion, the understanding, in John's blue eyes broke him. Sherlock looked away, his gaze once more drawn to the coffin and rage, unlike any he had ever known, filled him, boiled over, and he lost it.

" _No_ ," he muttered, his voice low, guttural, he gaze narrowed with revulsion as he stared at the coffin and what it represented. He wanted nothing more than to destroy it, to break it apart, because it shouldn't exist, not when the woman it was intended for was safe, alive. Molly Hooper was alive and she would never be in that coffin. Never, never, never, never, _never_ –

With a roar Sherlock exploded, lunging forward and smashing his fist into the lid of the coffin, splintering the wood. Again and again he bashed his fists in to the wood until the lid split apart and he picked up a broken piece and began smashing it against the base, screaming and yelling in rage, in pain, over and over until his voice grew hoarse and broken, until the coffin intended for Molly Hooper was nothing but a pile of wood shards, brass pieces and scraps of white silk littered across the stone floor.

He stood among the wreckage, his whole body shaking as he breathed heavily, sweat soaking his skin and hair, his hands bruised and scraped as they hung limp by his sides. With a choked breath he swayed and then stumbled to the wall, pressing his back to it before sliding to the floor in exhaustion. He brought his hands to his face and rubbed away the wetness from beneath his raw eyes, sucking in deep breaths to calm his racing heart. He had never felt like this before, so manipulated, so lost, so tortured. Moriarty had tried but Sherlock had figured him out in the end. Now, against Eurus, his sister that he had had no memory of until now, was using her genius mind to utterly destroy him and he didn't understand, didn't know why she was so focused on him. He didn't know how much more he could bear.

The scrape of wood against stone had him lifting his head and he saw John bend to pick up the gun that had been forgotten in Sherlock's rage, the gun that Eurus told him he was supposed to use soon, the victim not yet specified. His throat closed and he looked up at John, his eyes watering.

"Look," John began quietly, firmly, the voice of a man who had seen too much, who had lost too much. "I know this has been difficult and I know you're being tortured...but you have got to keep it together." Sherlock's jaw clenched as he dropped his gaze to stare at his shaking hands hanging over his knees.

"This isn't torture, this is _vivisection_ ," he spat out, his voice shaking as much as his hands. "We're experiencing science from the perspective of lab rats!" John remained silent and Sherlock lifted his head, dropping it back against the wall behind him, sucking in a steadying breath. The adrenalin from earlier was draining and Sherlock just felt exhausted, wrung out. His gaze flicked to his brother in the doorway, the older man watching him quietly, his arms crossed, a pensive expression on his face. He turned his head to meet his best friend's steady gaze, gathering strength from him. He sighed.

"Soldiers?"

"Soldiers," John confirmed and held out his hand for Sherlock to take. He did so, standing slowly, stiffly. He straightened his jacket, finding some comfort in the action. John walked at his side as they made their way to the door, Sherlock carefully taking the gun from John's loose grip, the ex-army doctor releasing a slow breath as Sherlock moved in front of him.

As he went to step through the door, Sherlock steeled himself, banishing any thought of Molly and their conversation to the back of his mind, locking it in the room where he kept all of his deeper emotions tightly secreted away. If he was going to see her, talk to her and explain what this had all been about, he needed to be completely free of distractions, completely in control of his emotions so he could get through this. He wasn't too sure he managed it completely as sad brown eyes flashed across his mind and his hand tightened on the gun. He shook his head slightly and, with a deep breath, Sherlock entered the next room, ready as he would ever be to end this.

 _Thanks for reading. Stay tuned for chapter 2!_


	2. The Truth

_Hello again! Thanks so much to those who have reviewed, favourited and followed this little story, it is very encouraging and I'm happy to see you enjoying it._

 _This chapter is a little interlude before Sherlock works up the courage to face Molly, told from John's perspective. The calm before the storm, as it were. Spoilers for the_ _episode: The Final Problem_ _are still in effect._

 _I hope you enjoy it and the last chapter will be up very soon._

 _Note: I made a big booboo in this chapter! I had the boys at Baker street when we all know it was blown up. Many thanks to ISolemlySwear2 for pointing it out so I could fix it! Sorry everyone who was left scratching their heads going "didn't their flat blow up?"_

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show. I'm only using them for my own entertainment.**

 _Chapter 2: The Truth_

"What are you going to tell her?" John Watson asked softly, sitting across from Sherlock in a quiet hotel room that Mycroft had provided in the mean time while Baker street lay in ruins after the explosion. Mrs H was staying with a friend until repairs could begin. They had been sitting that way for a good hour since one of Lestrade's people had dropped them off and after John had showered to wash away the mud and grime from being stuck at the bottom of a well, both contemplating the events of the day and the last few months really. Their thoughts were heavy, weary things, and both men were down to their last legs. It was only now, when a sense of calm had settled over them, that John felt it was time to break the silence. Sherlock didn't look at him, his gaze fixed on the low crackling fire in the fire place, his brow furrowed.

"The truth," he replied finally, his voice low, and John nodded. He had seen what had happened in that room with the coffin intended for Molly Hooper. He had seen what it had done to his friend when he had had to make Molly tell him she loved him in order to save her life. It hadn't shocked him when Molly demanded that Sherlock say it first; she had become so much stronger over the years and her ability to stand up for herself, to stand up to Sherlock, had gotten stronger every day. What had shocked the ex-army doctor was how Sherlock had said the words. He knew Sherlock would say them, anything to keep his friends alive and safe, that was what the man did for those he cared about. But the way Sherlock had said them, as if he had realised in that moment, as the words left his lips, that he meant them. One only had to remember the way Sherlock had completely lost it and obliterated the coffin intended for Molly to understand that the consulting detective's feelings for the pathologist ran much deeper than any of them could have guessed.

It was bittersweet, John thought, that after all that had happened, his friend was finally allowing the walls around his heart to fall away. John knew that he had had a hand in breaking down those walls and Mary... _oh, Mary_...she had sweet talked and cheekily outwitted Sherlock into finding a place in his heart as well. Rosie was a given; the cheerful baby girl was all smiles when Sherlock was around and the consulting detective was hard pressed to stay indifferent. The members of Sherlock's family already had their place, including Mrs H who was like a second mother to him, no matter how much Sherlock griped about their interference in his life. Irene Adler had had a fair crack at breaking down his walls, allowing John to see a side of his friend he had never seen before. But it was Molly, Molly Hooper, who had stood the test of time, who had remained unshaken in her faith in him, in her trust in him, her loyalty and willingness to do whatever she had to to help him, that caused Sherlock's walls to come crashing down. John only wished that it hadn't taken their lives to be threatened, for Molly's life to be threatened, for Sherlock to realise what he had.

John watched his friend quietly, taking in the stillness, the almost rigid way the man held himself. His face was a study in concentration, his fingertips pressing beneath his chin has he gazed into the fire. John knew Sherlock's thoughts were far away; his sister was once again locked up in Sherrinford, unresponsive to any communication; Mycroft was rattled, shaken, trying to deal with the consequences of the plans he had set in motion so long ago; and Molly, Molly who was mostly likely sitting in her living room, curled up on the settee with a cup of tea cradled in her hands to soothe her nerves, her cat Toby pressed against her side, was surely running over and over in her mind her conversation with Sherlock. John hoped that Molly would let Sherlock explain, that she wouldn't shut him out. He hoped that they could sort it out; he would be devastated to lose her friendship if she and Sherlock couldn't resolve this. John sighed.

"When are you going to see her?" He asked and Sherlock closed his eyes, huffing quietly.

"Well, seeing as you practically begged me to stay here instead of going to her flat tonight like I wanted to, I suppose I will see her tomorrow." Sherlock muttered, frustration clear in his voice and also a hint of wistfulness. John snorted and rubbed at his tired eyes.

"You have had an emotionally and physically draining day, Sherlock," John reminded him, looking at his friend pointedly. "You would be useless in trying to explain yourself to Molly. Sherlock, you have just found out that you have a sister, that she had killed your best childhood friend, and then you saved her from herself," John said gently, his expression softening when Sherlock's face twisted, the man's throat working as he swallowed heavily. "And you realised that you love Molly Hooper."

Sherlock's head snapped around to stare at his best friend and John sucked in a sharp breath when he saw the pain and fear flickering in his blue-green eyes. The consulting detective exhaled shakily and rubbed a hand over his weary face, his gaze returning to the fire. John bit his lip and leaned forward in his chair, wanting his friend to clearly hear what he had to say next.

"I know that terrifies you, Sherlock. But remember when I told you that you should give it a go with Irene Adler?" He hid a smile when Sherlock frowned, glancing at John out the corner of his eye. "I know, but I thought you two might have had something going on – " Sherlock was shaking his head.

"It's really only been texting since I saved her in Karachi and I hardly ever reply, haven't replied in a long while actually," Sherlock muttered, running a hand through his dark curls, his frown deepening. "But, Molly..." John nodded.

"Molly. It actually doesn't surprise me too much," he inclined his head when Sherlock turned fully to face him, his eyes wide. "I've seen how you are with her since you came back, Sherlock. You care for her and you show it in so many little ways that if I wasn't your best friend I would have never noticed. You care for her and today you realised it was much more than you thought it was. And you realised that she cares way more for you than you ever thought she did." His friend blinked rapidly and his eyes glistened brightly in the light of the fire. John's voice softened.

"Don't let this opportunity pass you by, Sherlock. There is a woman out there who loves you, who wants only the best for you. That woman has put up with every single hurtful thing you have said to her and has come out stronger. She tells you when you are wrong, she tells you to stop when you're hurting yourself, when what you are doing is hurting the people that care about you. She worries about you, she misses you when you're gone, she smiles when you come back," John's voice cracked as memories of Mary flooded his mind, the memory of her own beautiful smile bringing tears to his eyes. "That amazing woman loves you, Sherlock, and you would be a fool to let her go." A grin appeared on John's face as Sherlock nodded, a tear sliding down his cheek. The consulting detective looked back into the fire and wiped the tear away, exhaling shakily.

"I know," Sherlock said quietly and then laughed softly, his eyes twinkling in the firelight. "A fool indeed." John smiled before a yawn overtook it. Stretching, John stood.

"I'm gonna head off to bed. I'm picking up Rosie early in the morning," John said and smiled down at his friend. "Get some rest, Sherlock, you'll need a clear head when you talk to Molly tomorrow." Sherlock nodded, returning John's smile with a weary one of his own before his gaze returned to the fire, his busy mind preoccupied once more. John sighed and turned away, heading for the stairs that would take him up to his room. Sherlock would get some sleep eventually, John knew, no matter how much the prat insisted the body was only transport and didn't have needs. He also knew that Sherlock wouldn't set one foot in his bedroom until he had worked out exactly what he was going to tell Molly tomorrow. John wished him luck, his eyes already drooping in exhaustion.

As he flopped fully clothed onto his bed, almost instantly falling asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, thoughts of seeing his beautiful little daughter in the morning caused a content smile to curl his lips before he slipped into dreams. Dreams where Mary, her blue eyes twinkling cheekily and a sunny smile curling her soft lips, stood waiting for him.

 _Thanks for reading! Last chapter up soon!_


	3. Always

_Hi everyone! Here is the final chapter to this little story. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed - your comments are so encouraging and make my day! Thanks to those who have favourited and followed this story and for giving it a chance._

 _This chapter is pretty emotional - angst and fluff galore! - but I feel that after The Final Problem everyone is pretty vulnerable and I wanted to show that in this story._

 _I hope you all enjoy and thanks for reading! Any mistakes are mine :)_

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show, I'm just using them for my own entertainment.**

 _Chapter 3: Always_

Molly Hooper's front door had never scared him before but as Sherlock Holmes stood before it, the thing that separated him from being in Molly's presence, he found he was terrified to touch it. An irrational fear, of course. What could a door possibly do to him? _Molly could slam it in your face once she sees you_ , his brilliant mind supplied and Sherlock scowled, shifting from one foot to the other as he worked up the nerve to knock on her door.

He had only gotten a few hours sleep, staying up most of the night trying to figure out what he was going to tell Molly. The truth, of course, was obvious, but how to tell that truth and the rest of it had had him stumped for hours. Eventually his body overcame his mind and he fell asleep, plagued by dreams where Molly never answered her door when he tried to talk to her or never picked up her phone when he tried to call. The fear he felt when waking from those dreams filled him now as he looked at Molly's door, hoping that Molly's compassionate nature would allow her to at least hear him out. With that hope in mind he sucked in a determined breath, reached out, and rapped firmly on her door.

Sherlock waited and tried not to fidget, suddenly glad that she didn't have a peep hole in her door so she would have to open it to see who it was. His ears perked up when he heard the sound of footsteps and then the slide of the chain as she removed the deadbolt, his heart thumping almost painfully fast in his chest as he held his breath. The click of the main lock came next and Sherlock watched anxiously as the handle turned, the door opening slightly.

He had thought he had prepared himself to see her, that he was ready to talk to her, but when his eyes landed on her delicate face, her brown eyes wide as she peered up at him through the gap in her door, he found his breath stilling in his chest and his throat constricting around the syllables of her name. They just stared at each other for a long moment, neither saying anything, until, quite suddenly, Molly's eyes welled with tears and her teeth bit into her lip. Before he could say anything Molly closed the door in his face, a yelp escaping him when he bumped his forehead against the door after rushing forward to stop her.

Frozen for a long moment Sherlock just stood there. He couldn't banish the sight of Molly's tear filled eyes and slammed his own shut, swallowing hard and leaning forward to rest his stinging forehead against her door. He lifted his hands to rest against it, straining to hear any movement from within the flat. When he heard nothing he knew that meant that she hadn't moved away from the door. Glancing down he noticed the shadow beneath the door shift slightly and it confirmed that he knew she hadn't moved away, that she was standing just on the other side. A relieved smile formed on his face and he pressed against the door, swallowing nervously before taking a deep breath. He could do this. He needed to do this.

"Molly," he called softly. "I know that you're probably angry with – "

" _Go away_!" He flinched at the anger in her voice but continued on determinedly. He needed to explain, she needed to _know_.

"Molly, please listen to me. If you'd just let me explain – "

" _Explain_? Explain what? That you asked me to say "I love you" when you knew how hard it was for me...for me to say that to _you_? That not two hours ago _your brother_ sent his goons in here and practically ripped my flat apart, pulling all kinds of surveillance equipment from every single room that I had absolutely no idea were there? Well, you can shove that explanation up your arse, Sherlock Holmes! I'm done! _I-I'm done_." The anger had faded, her voice cracking as she broke into sobs. Her cries tore through him and his face twisted painfully as he struggled to hold it together. He hated that he always seemed to hurt her. _Always_ , _always_.

"Molly, please...just... _please_ , let me in," Sherlock pleaded softly, his forehead pressed against the door. Her crying continued and he squeezed his eyes shut, hating that this door was between them, that he couldn't get to her. He wouldn't force his way in. He had forced his way into her life too many times to count, always rocking up at her flat all hours of the night, barging into the morgue or lab, demanding lab results or body parts to experiment on. That night he thought he was going to die...he asked and asked and asked. He took and took and took, never giving a second thought to what Molly wanted, to what Molly needed.

His breathing hitched as he realised what a selfish bastard he had been. The only times she had ever asked him for anything was when he was hurting her or someone else; that Christmas when he had insulted her in front of all their friends; when she had slapped him for taking drugs after John and Mary had married; when he had taken drugs again to try and save John and she had given him weeks to live, the worry and fear for his life clear in her dark eyes; and that damn phone call, where he had practically begged her to say that she loved him and she would only do it if he said it first. All of the horrible things he had ever done to her flooded his mind and he trembled with self-loathing. He really didn't deserve the amazing woman falling apart on the other side of the door. He didn't deserve her loyalty, her trust, her kindness, her caring, her compassion, her _love_.

A choked gasp escaped him with the knowledge that whatever he did, however he tried to make up for all the horrible things he had ever said or done to her, it would never be enough. His breath left him as his knees buckled beneath him. He slid to the floor, his eyes burning with tears as a broken sob escaped him, the pent up emotions of the last few days, the last few months, overwhelming him. He couldn't do this. This was why he didn't do emotions, didn't do feelings. It wasn't because he was a machine, as he had been so often accused of being. It was because he felt _too much_. And once that door had been opened it was impossible to contain the tide that wanted to swallow him whole.

"M-Molly, _Molly_ , f-forgive me," Sherlock rasped, the words catching on the lump in his throat. "I-I never meant to hurt you, I've n-never wanted to hurt you. You're my friend, but then you're _so much more_ than that, aren't you? You have always been there for me, you've always listened, you've always helped. You have _always_ counted and I have _always_ trusted you. _You_ are the one that matters most to me, Molly. And...a-and you said...you said you've always loved me, right? Please don't give up on me now, _please don't give up_." He realised that he was babbling but once he had started he couldn't stop. And if she didn't let him in then this was the only way he could tell her what he felt, even if she didn't want to listen.

The tears were streaming now and he knew he must look an awful sight but he didn't care. He told John that he would tell Molly the truth and this was the truth, every gut - wrenching bit of it. He paused to catch his breath and realised that he couldn't hear Molly crying anymore. His blue-green, red-rimmed eyes widened and he pressed himself against the door.

"M-Molly? You...you wanted me to say it first, right? You wanted me to say it like I meant it. My sister, I didn't remember her and Mycroft kept her a secret but she found me, she h-had said that your flat would explode if I didn't get you to say that you loved me and I...I didn't want anything to happen to you...I couldn't l-lose you, Molly. Did you know?" He asked, _pleaded_ , closing his eyes tightly as he pressed his head hard against the unyielding surface of her door, as if by doing so he could pass through the solid wood and be beside her. "Did you know that when you asked me to say it first that I would realise it? It...it wasn't until I said it that I knew. Molly, I _meant_ it. I meant it, I meant it, _I meant it_ – " his voice broke and then he let out a startled cry when the door suddenly disappeared beneath him. He fell forward onto his hands, catching himself before he face planted into the carpet. Small, fine boned hands settled on his shoulders and Sherlock's head snapped up, his watery blue-green eyes clashing with glistening brown. They stared at each other for a long moment. Sherlock took in the paleness of her skin and the flush of red high on her tear stained cheeks. Her hair was in a messy bun, dark strands framing her delicate face. She was wearing a soft yellow knit jumper with giant embroidered daisies that was too big for her, swallowing her petite form and her legs were covered in grey leggings, a hole allowing her left knee to peek through. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

" _Molly_ ," he breathed and marvelled at the soft, tremulous smile that formed on her face. In the next moment she had fallen to her knees before him and drew him into her arms, her head falling into the curve of his shoulder as she wrapped her arms around his back, holding him close. He was frozen for a long moment, believing that he must have passed out on her doorstep in sheer exhaustion until he felt her fingers sliding gently through his dark hair. With a shuddering breath he all but wilted against her, burying his face into her neck as he banded his arms around her, crushing her against him. She didn't protest, didn't pull away, she only made soft shushing noises, her lips pressing to the crown of his head and he realised that he had been mumbling against her skin.

"I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry. Forgive me, _forgive me_ – "

" _Hush,"_ Molly murmured and he could feel her tears falling into his hair. "I'm sorry, too. I should have let you explain, I was just so angry, so hurt..." She pulled back slightly, smiling gently, sadly, and brushed the tears away from his cheeks when she could look at him. She made to stand but Sherlock tightened his grip on her, thinking she was leaving, his breath hitching in distress. Mycroft had always said that he had been an emotional child but after his best friend, Victor's, death he had changed. Sherlock knew that he had locked all those emotions away deep into his mind palace so that he could never be hurt again. But over the years certain people had entered his life and the door to that room would crack open every now and again. It happened gradually; a laugh here, a smile there, a companionable silence that granted him a peace he had only ever felt when high. He had made friends, friends that he cared deeply for, would do anything for, and they cared for him in return. And Molly. Beautiful, amazing, brilliant Molly had thrown the door wide open and he didn't know how to deal with it all.

" _Molly,"_ he gasped and she was suddenly kneeling before him again, cupping his face tenderly between her hands.

"Shh, it's alright, it's alright," Molly soothed gently, brushing her cool hands over his heated skin and his eyes fluttered shut at the sensation, an unsteady sigh escaping him as he tried to match his erratic breathing to her much calmer pace. Her calmness, her silent strength, reminded him of _that night_ , of her unwavering determination to help him, soothe him, with her words _"what do you need"_. _"You"_ he had answered and Sherlock knew it had always been her. The memories of that night helped to calm him along with her touch and after a moment as he calmed she reached for his hand, grasping it tightly and tugging him upright.

"Come on," she urged tenderly, pulling him along behind her as she shut and locked the front door and then tugged him towards the settee in her living room. She pushed him down carefully until he sat, cupping his cheek briefly as she told him she would get them some tea. Sherlock watched her go into the kitchen, awe at her composure filling him, and then he jumped a little when Toby, Molly's cat, hopped up onto the settee beside him, rubbing his fluffy head against Sherlock's leg and purring contentedly. Sherlock lowered his hand to pet his soft fur, a small smile flickering on his mouth when Toby's purrs increased.

Molly soon returned, holding two cups of tea, placing them on the low coffee table and then sitting beside him, being careful to avoid squashing Toby. The clever cat gave Sherlock's thigh one last head butt before leaping off the couch and darting down the darkened hallway.

"Sherlock – "

"Molly, I'm sorry," Sherlock interrupted her quietly, his gaze falling to his lap where his hands clenched together tightly. He felt her gaze on him and breathed deeply, feeling much calmer now that Molly had allowed him into her flat and, drawing strength from her quiet, soothing presence, he continued. "I wanted to tell you on the phone what was happening but my sister..." he trailed off. It was painful to talk about his sister, about Eurus. She had done so many awful things, had killed so many innocent people, but he couldn't hate her for it. It was the bane of a genius's existence, having a mind that was so brilliant that it would attack itself for any hint of stimulation. His sister suffered this everyday of her life. He too suffered it to a lesser degree and, without cases, his outlets were no better than hers to quiet his mind. He was brought out of his thoughts when Molly's hand settled over his own, her fingers slipping between his and cradling his hand gently. He exhaled and started again.

"She said that I couldn't let you know in any way that you were in danger, that I couldn't tell you why I needed you to say those words. But I'm _so_ sorry that I hurt you, that I made you – " A finger pressed against his lips, silencing him. He lifted his eyes to hers, his heart fluttering when she smiled.

"You don't need to tell me now," she murmured, pulling her finger away and lifting her hand to brush away the tangle of curls on his forehead. His eyelids fluttered at the touch. "I don't know what happened yesterday and I'm still angry, I'm still upset, but you can explain it to me tomorrow." Molly sighed softly, tiredly, before smiling up at his worn features, her gaze gentle, her fingers tracing the dark circles under his eyes. "But you're exhausted, Sherlock. _I'm_ exhausted. And I don't know if I could handle hearing it all right now. But I trust you to tell me the truth in the morning, Sherlock. You said that you have always trusted me and I have always trusted you, despite all the times my friends have said I shouldn't." Sherlock's gaze snapped up to hers, fear and hope clashing in his chest at her words and he hurried to reassure her.

"I _have_ always trusted you, Molly. I _do_ trust you and I swear that I will tell you everything – " he stopped when she pressed a finger against his lips again, her brown eyes soft when she met his.

"In the morning," Molly insisted, pulling her hand away. "We should get some sleep. We can talk about it in the morning." An overwhelming feeling of relief flooded him and a tear slid down his cheek unbidden, his eyes closing. Molly caught it with her finger, brushing it away gently. Her hand settled on his cheek and he opened his eyes to meet hers.

"Just tell me one thing," Molly whispered, her dark brown eyes bright and shining as they stared deeply into his. "Out there you said you meant it, what you said on the phone. Did you?" Her voice sounded so fragile and vulnerable and he felt his throat constrict in response.

"Yes," Sherlock said quietly, firmly, staring intently at her beautiful face. It was a truth that had lived inside him for years, he had just been too afraid to share it. "Yes, I meant it. I _mean_ it, Molly." She stared at him for a long moment, searching his face for the truth, and Sherlock knew that she would see it. She had always _seen_ him no matter how hard he tried to hide what he was feeling from everyone. He didn't have to wait long when the most stunning smile he had ever seen her give lit her face, her eyes shining wetly.

"Me too, _always_ ," she replied equally quiet and an answering smile spread across Sherlock's own face. He stilled when her hands cradled his face between them and she knelt up on the settee, leaning forward to press her lips ever so softly against his forehead. His eyes slipped shut, her touch an absolution from the horror of the last few days, and his hands came up to grasp hers, pulling them away from his face after a moment before bringing them to his lips, kissing her palms tenderly, his eyes locking on hers when he opened them. Molly smiled again before standing, holding onto one of his hands and pulling him up.

"Let's get some sleep, love. We'll talk more in the morning." Molly insisted gently, squeezing his hand and pulling him toward her room; a room that he had slept in many times, beside this very woman who held his hand so tightly in her own, when they had only been friends. But it was different now. Things had changed between them, changed in a way Sherlock had never thought, never _hoped_ , could happen to someone like him, and he felt his eyes burn with gratitude and, yes, _love_ , for the woman before him. The woman who had loved him the longest, the strongest, and unconditionally, for always: _Molly Hooper_.

 **The End**

 _Thanks for reading!_


End file.
